in place of the usual crinkled letters,
or so I imagined. What would you do
if it was me in your postbox, not pictures?
Would you read me over one hundred times
the way I do with each smile you send
long distance? Would you break the pantomimes
the oceans made me think would never end?
I know what you'd do: iron the folds out,
pin me to the wall in your living room
where I could hear your voice of exile shout
in person, and let me study your gloom,
from which you seek refuge in caress
of a young girl who can't pronounce your name.
You sing ghazals to her with bold finesse
but she dances on your grave just the same.
Some would say your exile is not so bad
and that you are living well in freedom,
but all I see inside your eyes is sad
stories of a king without his kingdom
